Missing the Reflection
by Catching the Lexicon
Summary: The life and times of George Weasley after his brother is killed. This is my first HP fanfic. Enjoy and review! Rated T just for safety. Completed because I found a much better version by some other author, and I would just end up stealing their ideas.
1. Gratitiude

**A/N: **So many things were bugging me about this. So I fixed it! And yes, I will have a third chapter up soon.

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George Weasley was mindlessly angry, mindlessly ungrateful, and trying to stay mindless about everything else.

It wasn't working very well. Amidst the ruins of what had once been the inventory of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, several weeks worth of unread _Daily Prophets_ shouted headlines up at him. He should have be glad of what they said, but headings like "DARK LORD DEAD AT LAST" only reminded him of who else was dead. The victorious faces staring up at him from the black and white prints only served to berate and mock him for believing for an instant that they could be counted among them.

George paced thoughtlessly, as he had for hours now, swiping an overturned chair out of his way with a simple gesture. Perhaps his spell had a bit too much power, because the chair crashed into a nearby metal filing cabinet and its one remaining leg cracked off. He couldn't bring himself to care. There was already so much wreckage, what did anything matter anymore?

Now he stopped suddenly, ankle deep amid the flotsam. He had spied a tarnished silver picture frame lying discarded on the gritty floor. Fingers trembling, he knelt, then sank, to the hardwood floor, clutching at the photograph. He didn't really feel the pain as a sharp, jagged piece of glass pierced his finger; he only paused to stem the flow so it wouldn't stain the picture. _No, don't look, _said a small voice somewhere in his head. _It's like mirrors. This is just as dangerous._ Indeed, as George stared achingly at the two-eared man on the left, he felt himself starting to tip, to tilt. Like he was falling off the edge of something enormous.

"Fred?" he asked aloud, his voice quavering, hoping against hope that something had changed, that maybe it was a painting instead of a picture after all, and that his brother would wink and grin even wider and say something to numb the pain. Or maybe Fred was alive, and he was just dreaming, and he would walk in the door any second now and make it all go away, make it go away. For no one in his family knew just how much George Weasley was hurting. They had cried for Fred as a brother, as a son, as a family member. They had not been able to speak at his funeral, and had instead let Professor McGonagall take over. George, though, had not thought that he would be able to speak ever again. He had not cried for a family member, as a brother. He had cried for _himself_, for his own _soul_, half of which now lay unknowing in a grave.

So really, he was being selfish. He was grieving for himself. That's what all his family seemed to think. He knew they talked behind his back. He had heard his parents whispering late into the night when he came to the burrow after the battle. He knew they were concerned that he hardly spoke to anyone, and that he wasn't eating. But he also knew that they thought he should have gotten to the point where he could speak again, that he should at least make an effort. But they didn't know that he was making as much of an effort as he possibly could. If he stopped trying, he was certain he would fall into a thousand pieces from the pain, like a shattered mirror casting a fragmented reflection.

The buzzer at the front of the store made a noise, and George turned sharply to reprimand whoever would think to come into his shop when the sign clearly said closed. His old anger, momentarily abated by the sheer sadness of the photograph in his hand, flared up again.

"Can't you see we're- I'm- closed? Come back when you've got- oh. Hello Angelina."

"Hi George. I just..?" Angelina Johnson's voice was full of concern as she looked around the ruined shop.

"Death Eaters," snapped George.

"Oh I- Do you need help...? I just mean, it's in quite a state." Angelina looked down at her toes.

"No. What are you doing here?" It didn't really even sound like a question, the way his voice fell flat.

Her faintly hopeful expression vanished. "Ah. Well. I-I just came by to say I'm sorry about-"

"You don't know how many times I've heard that," said George, his face and voice hard. "It does get old." Angelina stared at him; an odd, almost uncertain expression on her face, her coat half off.

"I'll just be going then, shall I?" Now she looked almost miserable.

George blinked once. Two emotions were playing at war behind his eyes. Then a pleasanter expression slid suddenly over his face like a mask. "No, sorry, I'm being horrible. Come and sit down, really."

"George, if you want me to go-"

"No, here, I'll take your coat." He crossed over to her in a few long strides and held out his arm for her light fleece pullover. Despite his sudden change in demeanor, it still seemed like an oddly stiff, wooden gesture.

Angelina hesitated for a moment. And then, looking almost confused and shocked at herself, she leaned towards him and pressed her lips to his.

Georges felt his body stiffen in surprise as if it weren't his own. It took almost a full second for him to realise what had just occurred. And then, without really knowing why he was doing what he was doing, he responded to the kiss. He parted his lips slightly and slid his hands gently over her shoulders. She tasted of cinnamon and summer breezes.

Then abruptly, he pulled away. His face closed once more. "I can't. Please- ungrateful- just, go. Please." His own emotions were rendering him incoherent. Angelina glanced at him.

"Ungrateful? What?"

"Nothing. Just you, and him- The Yule Ball- I can't. I don't deserve- He'll be mad."

"The Yule Ball? George that was- what are you even saying?" But despite her tone of shock, there was panic in Angelina's eyes.

"See? We can't. And Harry- haven't even thought of him- And he killed- Please, just go." He was almost pleading with her now.

"George, do you think you're ungrateful or something? Because it's only been-"

"I know how long it's been. And I've had enough apologies and excuses." His tone was final as he gestured towards the door.


	2. Confusion

_What _was_ that?_ Angelina flopped dejectedly back onto her bed. Her head was swirling with the events of earlier that day. _And why did it have to be so complicated? _She had always been good with people. Of course, she'd had her rivalries and her exes, but she'd always been generally outgoing and friendly to everyone. Especially Fred Weasley. That was the problem, she decided. It always came back to Fred.

It had started the year of the Triwizard Tournament. She hadn't really expected anything to come of it. Fred had asked her to the Yule Ball that year. They'd had a nice time dancing; there had been some light flirting. But the evening had been strictly casual. That was characteristic of the Weasley twins, she supposed. Either of them getting into a serious relationship just would have been out of character. They liked their freedom, Angelina knew.

So both she and Fred had gone their separate ways, dating and not dating people at various intervals. Neither of them really gave the other a thought the rest of the year, except for their respective roles on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. But it had been different the next year. When Angelina passed Fred in the hallways, or sat next to him in classes, she'd felt her pulse begin to quicken. She knew what it was, of course. She'd been in relationships with a number of boys before. But Fred Weasley, well, he was different. It wasn't the what that bothered her this time, but the why. Why did she have to fall for one of the most famously unattainable boys in the school? Why did her attraction to him have to be so strong? It took her a full month into the year to find the nerve to talk to him. She stopped him after Charms class as headed out the door.

"Hey, Fred?"

"Angelina! To what do I owe the pleasure?" Fred looked pleasantly surprised at her greeting.

"Um, can I talk to you?"

"Sure. Something to do with Beater duties, I'm sure?" The red-haired young man motioned for his twin to come over.

"No, actually. I was wondering if I could talk to you...alone?" Angelina blushed. Fred looked uncertainly back at his brother, as if seeking his approval. Angelina knew it was always that way; the two never did anything without each other. But today, for some reason, it irked her. She quickly covered up the annoyance on her face, however. She didn't want to mess this up.

"You two go on," smirked George. "You can...catch up to me later, Fred." He raised his eyebrows suggestively. Fred rolled his eyes at his twin's immaturity, and turned back to Angelina. He took a few stepped down the corridor in the opposite direction from George, and she quickly followed.

"So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?" Fred queried.

"I- Fred," Angelina felt suddenly vulnerable. She never stumbled over her words! She was always so precise... Fred looked slightly impatient at her hesitancy.

"Yes?..."

"Will-will you go out with me?" Her voice trailed away at the end, to the point where he might not have heard her. But he did. That was obvious. Angelina felt a little hurt at the shocked expression plastered on his face. But she knew he had a reason for it. No one _ever _asked out the Weasley twins. If they liked a girl, they told her. But no one ever said anything to them. Sure, most girls got asked out by boys, and not the other way around. But this was considered the most taboo. Asking out a Weasley twin! It was considered arrogant or pretentious to do so, like you thought you were better than all the other girls who matched their initials with their own in hearts on their schedules. So Fred Weasley had gone his entire Hogwarts career without being asked out by a girl.

"Um..." Fred hesitated.

"You can say no, it's all right, sorry I asked," said Angelina very quickly. She was blushing furiously.

"No, no! I-" Fred blushed too. Angelina was shocked. She didn't know he even was capable of modesty, let alone embarrassment. "I really do like you, Angelina." His voice was almost a whisper, bearing no trace of his characteristic cockiness. He leaned down towards her. Angelina's whole body quivered. It was sudden, then. Their lips met. Angelina savored his scent: sulfury like extinguished matches, plus a hint of cinnamon. But she pulled away after a few heartbeats, feeling suddenly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry-I shouldn't have, I mean-" she looked up at him helplessly.

"No, no, it wasn't your fault-it's not a bad thing, I mean, it was nice-" He shrugged, and for a moment neither of them was able to think of anything to say. It _was _nice, Angelina thought. Just being here, being quiet with Fred Weasley. She took in all of him- the little cowlick on the right side of his forehead, the smattering of pale freckles right on the bridge of his nose, the perfect way his robe was rumpled, his untied left shoelace. All of his imperfections seemed only to make the silence more perfect, even if a moment ago it had been painfully awkward.

"It can be a secret," Fred decided suddenly. Angelina felt her stomach drop.

"That's a no, then."

"Not exactly," said Fred, seeming to pick carefully through his own words, as though they were a briar patch. "That's a maybe. My brother would never let me live it down if he found out I said yes." And with that joking yet enigmatic remark, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving behind him only the slight scent of a snuffed out candle.

So life had gone on as it had before, with only minor changes. Angelina was still the sporty, outgoing girl she had always been-7th year Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, with a bright looking future as far as academics went. Fred was still the 7th year cocky practical joker, with his unfailing contempt for the world of academics. His twin, George, was almost constantly by his side, helping him with ideas for pranks and trooping around the school with him by way of secret passages. But one of those minor changes was that whenever he wasn't, Angelina was there to greet him with a hello, and sometimes a soft kiss.

Neither of them had been quite sure how to define their relationship. It wasn't exactly a secret, but nor was it a completely public thing. It was, Angelina decided one day, a sort of friends-with-benefits relationship, except not as sexual as the phrase implied. They really were mainly friends, with a little romance on the side.

After Fred and George had pulled their little stunt with their fireworks on the last exam day before the holidays, and officially renounced their academic career, Angelina wasn't quite sure where to go, what to do. She wasn't sure she even wanted to know. It was always that way with Fred and her-impromptu. So she let herself do whatever felt right.

What felt right was to be with him more fully than she had in school. She was free from the fears of gossip, jealousy and disapproval. However, when she had showed up at his apartment on Diagon Alley, he seemed unwilling. He appreciated their relationship, he said, but didn't want to take it any further now that they were out of school and balancing jobs.

_Then he made some stupid joke, trying to lighten the tension, _thought Angelina bitterly_. And that was the end of it, once George came to call him back to work_. But she still had feelings for him. She had known it was stupid; he would never get attached to anyone. She had figured that out, even, if she was honest with herself, before he had ended it. But love wasn't logical. The night of the Battle of Hogwarts, she had searched the castle desperately for him, begging him in her mind to be ok. But when she finally found him, it was in the Great Hall, surrounded by family members and lying cold and silent on the floor. She couldn't bear to gaze at the small smile etched permanently on his face, couldn't bear seeing his twin bent in anguish over his body, couldn't bear facing the rest his family when they never knew how much he had meant to her.

She had left. She had told herself that, just as it was the end of Fred Weasley, it was the end of her desire to love anyone. Her relationship with him had certainly not been balanced. She was never sure if he loved her the way she loved him. He might not have even been sure himself. But whether or not the feelings had been mutual, Fred had been Angelina's first _one_, however casual their relationship may have seemed.

Evidently, she had lied to herself about never wanting to love anyone else. Or had she? It was so complicated, and now Angelina was disgusted with herself. _Look at me,_ she thought ashamedly, curling herself into a little ball on her pale purple comforter. _What the hell am I doing to myself? What kind of sick person just turns around and does this? _It was George who had broken down inside the ruined shop on Diagon Alley. Angelina had been the one offering reassurance, she had been reasonable and kind. But she hated herself for it. She hated herself for every second she had kissed George Weasley, and hated herself for those same seconds that she had actually enjoyed it. It wasn't healthy. It hadn't felt any different than kissing Fred, and that was the problem. _I'm just substituting one twin for another. That's horrible,_ she shouted at herself, silently yet furiously. Was she not able to distinguish between one man and his brother? She had never been too intimate with Fred, but that didn't mean she didn't know the contours of his lips, every detail of his eyes-

And with George, it had all been the same. She was using him in some twisted way that she could barely define, using him for his body, but with his consent. He had wanted her to kiss him, back there in the shop. The way she had wanted him, though, she wasn't able to define. He needed her, but how did she need him? And did she want to be dependent on anyone?

These questions burned in Angelina's mind for hours as she lay in her tiny, messy room in her cramped apartment. The setting sun cast a bloody shadow on her pale brown skin, and then later, the moon lit it up with an eerie paleness. And still she lay wide awake, with no answers to the questions she could barely bring herself to formulate, an impasse etched hopelessly into her every thought.


	3. Despair

**A/N:** Yes, I finally updated. So this fic is not forgotten. I will try to update soon (although I do say that an awful lot). Now, I promise, this story has a plot, and this was essential, not just some random romance scene. R&R!

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It was a whole month later when George next saw Angelina, and his world was blurring at the edges.

He heard the tinkling of the bell in the shop below as a distant echo, and didn't even have the strength to get up and tell whoever it was that it was after hours. Maybe it's the last Death Eater, he thought apathetically, come to finish me off. He wasn't particularly terrified of the prospect, even when he didn't take into account how unlikely it was.

He found out soon, however, that it definitely wasn't a Death Eater. It was a tall female figure that stood in the doorway, dressed in what had to be Muggle clothing. She definitely had dark hair, but George was having a hard time focusing on her face. He was just about to ask her what she was doing in his apartment when-

"George!"

"Angelina? What are you doin' here?" he asked thickly, raising the bottle of firewhisky to his lips. Angelina's eyebrows- he could see them clearly now- pinched together into an expression of unpleasant surprise.

"Oh George, God, Lee told me you'd been doing all right, but I had to come and check. Give me that!" She whipped out her wand, gave it a flick, and George felt the bottle yank itself out of his hand. Angelina caught it with the skill of the Chaser she was.

"Lee hasn't been 'round for a few days now..." George muttered to himself, his words slurring slightly. The room tilted a few degrees and the sort twilight streaming in through his window seen to grow suddenly darker. "God, George-look at me," Angelina whispered. George started. Somehow she had managed to kneel down right next to him without him noticing.

"Ange, you shouldn't be here. I don' want-"

"You can't do this to yourself, okay? It's not healthy! There are other ways-other ways of dealing with... things," she finished lamely. "He wouldn't have wanted you to anyways..."

"How do you know?" George reckoned he was too drunk to be properly angry, but it wasn't for lack of trying. "How d' you know what he wants- wanted. How do any of you know! None of you..."

"Please George. I wake up wondering if you're okay. Just be okay." Her voice hitched a bit, and George wasn't sure, but he thought he could see a tear in her eye.

"'M not worth wondering about."

"Of course you are, George! Don't- really, don't-be like this."

"Fine. I won't."

This time, it was he who initiated the kiss, not thinking about it, only wanting them both to be quiet. He dived forward unsteadily, clumsily fumbling for her lips. She seemed shocked when he finally pushed his mouth against hers, yet she still responded. He expected her to be repulsed by the alcohol on his breath, but she didn't pull away. Perhaps it was the hunger and the sudden neediness of the kiss which drew her to him.

His hands traveled slowly behind her neck and tangled in her thick black hair. He felt her hands do the same. It was wonderful, and this time she tasted like moonlight and the sweetness of butterbeer and he couldn't help himself.

He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, so close. They would break apart to breathe and then suddenly need each other desperately again. The twilight deepened further, and still neither one of them could bear to break away.

And then Angelina murmured a word. Just one. And it changed everything.

"Fred." It was barely even a whisper.

It took a moment for both of them to register what she'd said. Then their lips froze in unison.

George was hardly aware of what he was doing. He ripped away from Angelina, but it was difficult, as if she was somehow suctioned to him. He heard her gasp, but he barely cared. He yanked his wand out of his pocket and blindly thrust it towards her.

"Get away from me, goddamnit." His voice was low and rough. _Fred._ The way she'd said his name echoed like a drumbeat in his mind. _Fred._ Her and him, dancing together at the Yule Ball. Kissing in the corridor when they thought he'd gone on to his next class. She had been there, at the funeral too, hadn't she…God, no. This wasn't happening.

"George, I have to go." She was a hunted rabbit, poised for flight. The fact that she seemed so ready to get away from him only made him angrier. A paradox though it was, he wanted her out of his sight more than ever.

"Yes, you do. _Now_."

Angelina looked at him, frightened. "I know it doesn't help to say I'm sorry. But I am." She turned and fled through the half open door. Her footsteps were impossibly light on the stairwell.

George picked up another bottle and willed it all to just go away.


End file.
